Sansa

"You're squeezing your fingers too tightly. Let them dance with the needle and the thread."

Watching Shireen as the girl completed a simple floral pattern, Sansa couldn't help be feel a sense of motherly pride, the Queen apparently having felt little obligation in teaching her daughter simple skills such as needlework back on Dragonstone.

"It's beautiful," she said warmly.

"Thanks," Shireen replied bashfully. "It's nothing like the dresses you make though."

"But you've read ten times the books than I, so I think we're even." She sensed there was something Shireen wanted to ask, but was holding herself back from. "Do you not like sewing?"

"I do," Shireen responded, looking downwards, away from Sansa. "I just...it's taking so long for me to learn. I'll be sewing the same simple patterns forever before I get better."

"Every skill takes patience." Funnily enough, the girl seemed to remind her of Arya at the moment, and Sansa wondered if her sister had made it to Braavos yet. And a part of her feared for her. If Theon could die, once she'd changed things...what about Arya? "Is there something in mind you want me to show you?"

"Animals," the Princess replied immediately. "I want to be able to thread stags and wolves...," she bit her lips nervously, "and a lion, maybe."

Sansa leaned in conspiratorially, holding back an amused giggle. "You want to make something for Tommen, don't you?"

The younger girl pretended to shrug indifferently, but Sansa could tell she'd hit at the truth. "He loved those golden robes you made for him so much...the way he looked at you..." Shireen stopped, sensing she was crossing a fine line.

Softly, Sansa put her hand on the girl's wrist, Shireen's hand still holding her needle. "Shireen, he doesn't like you any less, just because you can't make him clothes."

"It's not the clothes," Shireen said, sighing. "Even if I could thread as well as you...he'll never look at me, not the way he looks at you." Absentmindedly, perhaps unknowingly, she fondled the half of her face afflicted by the disease with her own free hand. Suddenly realizing her breach of etiquette, she looked back in horror at Sansa apologetically. "Not that he should look at me in any way...you're his betrothed, after all."

You love Tommen.

If only we could both get what we want. You, Tommen. Me, home. Freedom.

"Shireen," she said carefully. "Tommen is a kind young man. He's obedient and dutiful, all the things his brother isn't. He...he likes me because he's supposed to like me, because we are betrothed. Were it the other, and you and he to marry, he'd see you the same way he sees me now."

For many, this would be a lie, yet Sansa sensed she was speaking the truth about Tommen.

"He wouldn't," Shireen said, touching her face again, this time more obviously.

"You know Tommen," Sansa replied, conscious as she always was about the Princess's worst insecurity. "Do you really think that would make him think any differently of you? Does he see you any differently now, because of it?"

"I don't know," Shireen muttered, her fingers fiddling nervously as she thought through her words. "He's still a man, isn't he. And men...they like what they like."

"Tommen's better than most men though...that's why you're...fond...of him."

"I'll never be you though," the girl said bravely, looking Sansa in her eyes. "Tall, beautiful, graceful...clean."

"Shireen, don't say that about yourself."

"But it's true," she protested more vehemently, "we both know it. And you're...you're different. I know you play with us, and you pretend you're like us...but you're different when you're with...them. When you're the real you." She gestured with her hand, meaning clearly all the grown lords and ladies and kings Sansa spent the rest of her time with, and she wondered how much she'd heard from her father, or had Shireen figured out all this on her own, smart girl as she was. "He loves you, because you're beautiful and perfect...and because you're different, you're everything he could ever dream of, yet you have to pretend to play with us and like us."

"I don't pretend to like you or Tommen," Sansa said, sincerely, or so she thought...did she not sound as sincere as she believed? "I truly do enjoy spending time with the two of you. Far more than anyone else in the castle."

Yet, she enjoyed her part in the other games, didn't she?

"And I don't think Tommen loves me," she continued, thinking of how she'd once thought she loved Joffrey. "He thinks he loves me, because he's supposed to love me..."

"And because you're easy to love."

Oh poor girl, you're so far from the truth.

"You're so easy to love too, dear Shireen," she replied, holding the girl's face in her hand. "Any boy or young lad who doesn't see that is blind." Sighing, finding the Shireen was doubting her, Sansa continued. "Your father loves you, Shireen. He'd never allow you to marry Tommen, because of...politics. But I know he'll find a good match for you. Someone kind, and gentle, and brave. Someone who will love you for you, and not your birthright, not your throne. And one day you'll sit in that chair, and every lord and prince and knight in the realm is going to look up at you in admiration, and seek your hand, except you already have a man you love sitting beside you, loving you and supporting you."

Unless I ruin it all for you.

"I'd like you to sit beside me too," Shireen said, thankfully somewhat soothed by her words. "I don't want to be Queen, I don't want to rule. But I think I'd be a better queen with you next to me. I'd even name you my Hand. And maybe Tommen can be Master of Laws, or whatever...he'd sit on my Small Council, and we can all rule the seven kingdoms together, and be together, just like we are now."

"I'd like that too," Sansa said. She didn't lie, because she didn't need to lie, it would be something she'd like. She wanted to go home first and foremost, and stay home forever, and stay with her family...but didn't mean she hadn't come to appreciate her new friendships here in this new and different court in King's Landing her second life here.

"Shireen...," they both heard the King say from outside the room. Walking in, he stumbled, not expecting to see Sansa with his daughter. "Lady Sansa," he said, looking away from her as he always did in her presence, "I was actually looking for you earlier."

"Your Grace," she bowed.

"The solar," he said. "Half an hour."

So she left the King with his daughter, wondering what Stannis wanted from her. As always, she thought of the Red Lady, and whether her fire god had finally revealed to her the treasonous plots between certain Lannisters and certain Starks, below the King's own nose. But Stannis did not seem angry when he entered, merely uneasy, as he always was around her, or anyone for the matter.

"Lady Sansa. I thank you for your...help with the Boltons."

"It's my duty," she replied warily in turn, "to do whatever I can to help the king."

"But you wanted them dead for yourself too," he said, with a sudden and unexpected intensity. "I saw your eyes, when they burned, when you convinced us of your...method of guilt." He paused, unsure of how to continue. "Whatever you've seen...in your visions...you must have felt them. Deeply."

"I have," Sansa replied cautiously, wondering how close he was at discovering her truth.

"My daughter thinks you a playmate of hers," he said. "But you're not, are you? Whatever you've seen...it's made you...not a child anymore."

"It'd be difficult," she said, parsing through every word, "to have seen what I've seen and still retain a child's mind."

This time it was Stannis who appeared the more apprehensive. "You said...you saw me burning her. For the sake of this awful throne?"

She'd told them as such during the council, to convince them of the breadth and depth of her visions. Now the words come back to haunt them both.

"It won't come to pass," she replied, doing her best to assure a king. "Not after what's happened."

"I never wanted this throne. To think...," he stopped, cocking his head as he looked at her. "I love her, Lady Sansa. She's the only child I'll ever have. I don't deserve her, especially not after knowing what you've seen, but I love her anyway. And she deserves better than the Iron Throne, but to sit on it's her duty, as it is mine."

He stopped, unable to continue, eyes brimming with hurt and guilt.

Whatever drove you to burn her...it must have been so awful, wasn't it, between the Wall and Ramsay? All for this awful chair. It made her feel sorry for the man, to think him less cold, less cruel...less worthy of her betrayal.

"You fear the throne will destroy her?"

Stannis looked up. "No. I fear the lords will destroy her, the same lords pledging their swords to me now. They'll never accept a woman on the throne, regardless of law, regardless of what they promise me while I breath. They'll rip her apart, when I'm gone." When his eyes met hers again, they seemed to be pleading. "She likes you. She trusts you. I need you to help her...as you've helped me...when the time comes."

"I can't help her," she said immediately, to the King's consternation. Controlling herself, she thought of the best way to extricate herself from this position. "You're the King, Your Grace. You're the one who has to build the world she inherits. You're the one who needs to inspire respect and fear into all the lords, to know which ones to trust and which ones to discard, as you did the Boltons, so that the realm Shireen inherits doesn't destroy her immediately. I swear, I will do what I can to help her, when she does sit on the throne. But I can't secure the realm before she rules...not before her king and father."

Somehow, she managed to speak as before, without lying outright. Until Stannis spoke again.

"Then help me, my lady. If you...get any new visions...such as who's disloyal, or who she'd ought to marry...I beg you, tell me."

Before, she'd been resentful that the new King had used her then discarded her. Now, she wished she were still wallpaper to Shireen's father.

"You need to marry her to a house lacking ambition, true to their word."

Stannis chuckled appreciatively. "You're recommending your own family, aren't you?"

"I won't lie and say I'm without bias, and I won't lie and say I believe my brothers would ever seek to rip the throne away from her. Rickon could be a good match." But Rickon was still young, wasn't he? In her last life, as in this, Rickon was little more than a stranger to her, the man he'd yet to grow into now, the man he'd never had a chance to grow into before. "You shouldn't trust the Lannisters, obviously, or even the Tyrells. But you shouldn't trust a minor house either, just because they're weak, because they'll seek to use your name and hers to augment their power. Look at the Boltons or Freys, or even Baelish, how they strive unscrupulously beyond their station."

"Trust no one but the Starks," Stannis asked, cynically, and hopefully.

She had to remain impartial, because she may still betray him one day.

May. Are you no longer so certain of your alliance with the Lannisters?

"Dorne," she said, remembering. "They're accustomed to a woman's rule. Prince Trystane is already betrothed, but maybe another Martell relation, or a Yronwood, or Dayne."

"I've thought of them too," Stannis agreed. "I know little of the Dornish houses, they've never been on the best of terms with Storm's End." He stood, looking more satisfied now than at the beginning of their conversation. He continued, as if more talking to himself. "It makes good relations with Prince Oberyn more important, once he arrives. The realm's the strongest when Dorne and the throne stand together."

Without even dismissing her, the King rose and paced the room, likely contemplating many of his many problems. When he arrived at a stop, it seemed he'd made a decision.

"Lady Sansa, we ride west the next moon, to put an end to Balon's rebellion. Many of the greatest houses in the realm will fight with me, to prove me their loyalty after the last war. I'd like you to come with me, you can stay at Casterly Rock, I'm sure Lord Tywin won't object. Perhaps...your presence near so many of the Princess's future subjects may spur...more of your...visions."

I'm out of visions, she thought. But she sensed that Stannis suspected that also. And that he didn't want her along for her supernatural abilities...but her natural ones, the ones that drove her to hate herself at night.

"I'm not sure what use I'll be," she demurred, "but where I can help, I will."

He may very well appoint me to his Small Council before I reach my majority, she thought, as she walked back to her own quarters. A darker thought occurred to her. And what better place to betray a King from?


Tyrion

Crucifixion was a bloody terrible business, Tyrion reckoned, and it was a good thing the Targaryens of old preferred fire to this form of blood. He could only hope that the Targaryen of new did not dwell too much upon the punishment, her use of it upon taking Mereen merely a one time measure, justified as it was harsh, as even Barristan Selmy concurred at the end. He had to admit the ingenuity of the siege, which resulted in few casualties. For her side, anyway. As Barriston, the dourer of the Mormonts, and the sellsword Daario gave way grudgingly for his audience, he wondered if this was to be his side as well, in the days to come.

"Lord Tyrion," she welcomed him from atop the Great Pyramid, her voice warmer to him than before, "see before you a great city, freed from tyranny."

"It's an impressive sight," he admitted. The cities of the east were certainly grander things than the ones in Westeros, including the cesspool he'd ruled for what seemed barely half a moon. "Though I venture Your Grace would prefer to look upon King's Landing from above."

The Dragon Queen regarded him curiosity, as if he were a toy, but she the kindest owner of the toy. She was a small woman, short, barely towering above his own brow, though Tyrion knew better than to judge anyone on stature alone. They said the Targaryens of old were gods amongst men, the best of them at least, and though most men and even women towered over her, in her presence Tyrion could not entirely deny those rumors of godliness, and not just for reasons of appearance.

"You liked the crucification of the masters little more than Ser Barristan," she said stately. "Have you decided whether you'll join me when I make my return to Westeros?"

"Will you kill me if I don't?"

A pause, but enough of a humorous glint in her eye to tell him her hesitation was for show, rather than meant in seriousness. "It's a large world, Lord Tyrion. I can't vouch for your safety were you to leave Mereen...but I won't stop you either."

"Hmmph," Tyrion muttered, walking freely through the chambers for the nearest jug of wine. She did not protest when he poured himself a glass, and accepted one for herself when he offered it. "What thought have you given to Ser Loras?"

"He's eager to serve in my Queensguard," she said, not giving anything away.

"Yet you're not sold on him."

"I need men of talent," she said carefully, "and the Knight of Flowers is talented. He's young. Rather handsome, and his name carries weight across the seven kingdoms."

"And I'm old, rather ugly, though my name also carries weight across the seven kingdoms." They regarded one another, more as curious beasts sniffing out the other than the highborn lords and ladies they were. "Yet you call me here before Ser Loras, to ask me for my service."

"I ask nothing," Daenerys replied defensively. "And how do you know Ser Loras was not here before you?"

"I just do," Tyrion replied, grinning purposefully. "I drink, and I know things."

To his happiness, dare he say, the Dragon Queen smiled in return. "Your counsel will be most useful. And I would wish to avail myself of it." She frowned. "Ser Loras...he's a good fighter, but I already have thousands of great fighters in my stead. And all the things you said...he's young, he's handsome, his name is grand..."

"You fear he'd pose a threat to you?" He took a stiff swallow to finish his first glass, and steadily poured himself another.

"Many would wish to claim me as their queen, not least of which from the Great Houses. You at least have yourself a woman, Lord Tyrion, whom you appear to love. A good, jealous woman who appears to love you enough to slit your throat were you ever to presume to claim me as your own."

"You claim you wish my counsel, Your Grace. Allow me to counsel you?" A subtle nod, indicating he ought continue. "You think to remain in Mereen, to learn how to rule before you sail west...a wise choice. As to a possible alliance of marriage with the Knight of Flowers...also not the worst idea."

Her eyes seem to darken as she narrowed them at him. "Explain."

"He has a great name, the best out there, unless there's some hidden Targaryen flying around the realm we know not of. Yet he's not ambitious, he has no wish for the Iron Throne."

"I get it. He wants revenge. And if he can bed a Queen in the process, while he uses her for his own bloody ends..."

"Your Grace...I think it's he who would wish to be bedded as a Queen, had Renly Baratheon lived and won the war."

A curious frown, and then understanding. "He..."

"He will never lust for you, Your Grace. And you need not love him, except you can know with confidence he has no need of your love for him. Take whomever you wish to your chambers, or don't. As to Ser Loras, he'll do his duty, I'm sure, to produce an heir..."

"There won't be an heir," Daenerys replied, her voice sharper and quicker than he'd expected. Now his turn for confusion, she continued. "I can't have children."

"You're sure?" It seemed odd, for the young woman to pursue the continuation of a dynasty she knew would die with her.

"I am. It's a long story, perhaps one day I'll tell it to you, as you counsel me."

The smile returned, warm again...the same smile which he saw inspiring a hardened knight like Barristan Selmy...the same smile he reckoned both Jorah Mormont and the sellsword Daario to be in love with.

"It's strange," she said, almost to herself, "I've never dreamed of him, your Knight of Flowers."

He gulped. "What have you dreamed of, Your Grace?" He'd been wanting to broach this subject with her since his arrival at Yunkai, and dreading it at the same time.

"I dream things that come true," she said simply. "I dreamed my eggs would hatch into dragons, and they did. I dreamed I'd take the three cities of Slaver's Bay, and so I have."

"And so you have," he agreed. With fire and blood.

Her voice hushed some. "I dreamed I was being betrayed by Ser Jorah. I confronted him, he confessed and begged my forgiveness."

"And you forgave him?"

"It was in the past," the Dragon girl said, though he could tell there remained some remnant of the hurt in her eye. "I believe him, he still has my trust, more than most." She approached him calmly, her small steps somehow more formidable than most. "Don't betray me, Lord Tyrion. I may yet dream of it."

"Your Grace," Tyrion replied, head bowing in some sort of reverence, "were I to counsel you, I would pledge to you my word, my life, my honor."

"Your honor as a Lannister?"

"My honor as Tyrion Lannister." His glass was empty, and the jug seemed so far away at the moment. "You said you dreamed of others who betrayed you? A red wolf? A crow?"

She turned away from him, almost as she were brooding, walking to the edge of the top balcony of the pyramid. He thought for a moment that he'd crossed too far a line, that his audience with her was finished because of his words.

When she spoke, it emerged as a whisper. "I loved him, the man who wore a crow's cloak. Yet he killed me, he stabbed me in the heart, even as he claimed to love me, and kissed me." When he had no response, she spun around to face him. "He betrayed me. And the girl with red hair, a wolf's emblem upon her chest. I don't know how, or why...I just know she betrayed me also."

He shuddered, and she recognized the reason for his alarm.

"You know who they are?"

He turned. "Your Grace, I should leave."

"Tell me," she said, her words as commanding as any he'd heard from King Robert, or his own father.

"Your Grace...," he paused, stumbling for words for once. "The crow man, I know not."

"But the girl."

A wolf with red hair? She'd figure it out sooner or later, the moment she lands her dragons in Westeros. And couldn't he better help Sansa by Daenerys's side, to temper her inevitable wrath, justified or not?

"She's an innocent girl, harmed and made to suffer by my own family," he said carefully, looking down below, where hundreds of masters rotted, alive yet dead all the same, nailed upon the crosses. Yet, just how innocent was she? "You have to promise me, you won't judge her for the sins she's yet to commit...sins she may never commit."

"You like this girl," Daenerys said. "Or you feel guilty for her mistreatment?"

"Perhaps both," he replied.

"I'm not my father," she said, looking upon the floor, her eyes guilty herself as she made her candid confession. "I know he was evil, he did evil things...that he deserved his end, dying by the hands of traitors. I aim to sail to Westeros not to seek revenge, but to correct his sins. I won't punish the innocent, Lord Tyrion. I won't further sully the Targaryen name in the seven kingdoms like my father...and brother did."

"Sansa Stark," he uttered, so quickly that he wondered whether he'd been bursting to confess her this the moment he heard of her dreams.

"Ned Stark's daughter?" Daenerys seemed confused. "She's...she's just a girl, isn't she? I thought Starks were dark of hair."

"She has her mother's Tully mane," Tyrion replied, fervently hoping he hadn't just condemned the girl whom he suspected had more to do with his exile than she would claim. "A clever one, but decent, and kind, and a child at that," he added hastily. Or so she had been, when he first visited Winterfell, or so they said of her before she started seeing her visions.

"You know her well." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Passingly the first time. A bit more during Stannis's siege."

Of her abilities, he spoke not of, lest he give the Dragon girl more reason to fear Sansa.

When she spoke again, her violet eyes were more hardened than before, and he saw her grip tightly her goblet. "Then counsel me, Lord Tyrion, and lead me to Westeros, and keep her from committing treason against me, so as to keep her innocent and not deserving of the Queen's justice."


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Notes and responses: Thanks to all for reading and reviewing thus far. Obviously the big reveal last chapter and this is Dany's "dreams", and the extent and content of them. It would seem that she sees Jon killing her, not vice versa, which suggests her dreams are "canon". She also fails to see Tyrion as a "traitor", which would suggest they may not be full or complete. As to how she does in Essos...we already see her finding out about Jorah and then forgiving him, because she caught him early (likely while she still relied upon him more). And you're right, she wouldn't think much of what she's doing in Essos to be "wrong" per se...I'll just surmise that most of her experiences have been similar, though perhaps things would have gone smoother, like taking Yunkai, knowing Daario would come to her side, perhaps sniffing out Pyat Pree at the House of the Undying earlier (though I'd imagine she would have walked the halls and seen her canon visions regardless, that part's inevitable).